Freedom
by DestinyIgnites
Summary: "The wind sways through her and he becomes very aware that if he were to kiss her, he would taste strawberry ice cream on her tongue; the smell of it lingers in the wind. And it takes much of his energy not to lean in, not to press his lips to hers, not to taste every inch of her. He remembers her kiss. He remembers her taste." (sort of fluffy, for queenofklaroline)


**I haven't written a fic in a while, so excuse me if I'm a little rusty. Hopefully it isn't terrible!**

**This is loosely based on the scenes from 5x11, but it has nothing to do with the current storylines on The Originals or The Vampire Diaries. **

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_freedom_;

the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.

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He turns his head a little to his left. It's barely an inch, but it's enough to get a better view of the way her golden locks fall to her shoulders, the way her chest rises and falls as the wind caresses strands of her hair, and the way the finger of her left hand delicately traces her daylight ring.

He moves so that every inch of her is in his line of vision, watching as she leans against the porch and looks out at the empty field of grass. She is here. And he didn't even have to wait a century.

She is here, on the front porch of his home.

He smiles, he can't help himself.

_Were you going to knock?_ He wants to ask, but the words do not form on his lips, so he lingers a moment longer in content silence.

He moves a step closer, and she turns to face him, her lips forming a light smile.

"Hello, Caroline."

"Hi," she replies quietly.

She gives nothing away with the breathing of this word; there is no flirtation, no worry, not even excitement, only sincere kindness.

The kindness is enough, he decides.

There is a silence then. The wind sways through her and he becomes very aware that if he were to kiss her, he would taste strawberry ice cream on her tongue; the smell of it lingers in the wind.

And it takes much of his energy not to lean in, not to press his lips to hers, not to taste every inch of her. He remembers her kiss; he remembers her taste.

He clears his throat. "I'm glad you came."

He tries to suppress a seductive smile at his words, but by this point he knows every word he breathes will have a hint of sexual desire. After all, he has already imagined the taste of strawberry ice cream on her tongue. More over, he knows that if he lets his mind wander freely for even a mere moment, the dark space behind his eyes will be filled with vivid images of her naked body touching his.

"Well," she starts, before she knows exactly what to say. She stumbles here, torn between wanting to say something witty or something brutally honest. The truth being that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, she wants to be near him.

She remembers his touch, his kiss, and she misses it. She remembers the softness of his voice as he moved himself inside her. _There's my girl_, he said, softly and tenderly, with the smallest of smiles, as she raised herself up and took in more of him. She remembers the feel of his lower back, the warmth of his skin. She remembers all of him.

She stutters again, shaking the mental image of his skin against hers.

He smiles at her, almost as though he can see the images playing behind her eyes.

"I...I don't know why I'm here," she finally mutters a confession that just so happens to be both honest and deceitful, all at once. It's honest because she cannot think of any logical reason for making this choice of hers, she does not understand why she allowed all rational thought to escape her mind as she left her home and made her way here, to Klaus. It is deceitful because she understands exactly why she's here; she understands that she wants to be near him, to be with him, despite all rational thought.

"If you're on the verge of changing your mind…"

"No," she says.

She watches as he struggles to trap a smile between his lips. She smiles at that; it seems to be beyond her control, this reaction to him.

"You're leaving all of Mystic Falls behind?" He dares not sound too hopeful as he asks.

"I don't know."

_You can't do that_, he wants to tell her. _You cannot stand before me and still remain undecided_.

"Come in," he says instead, leaving a space for her to enter his home. She does, with a light smile, and he follows her inside.

She looks around the house with disinterest; plain brown walls, some oil paintings, and not a single living thing. She looks at him; he is standing by a table that holds a variety of alcoholic beverages, pouring what appears to be two glasses of red wine.

"Do you think about it?" She asks, bluntly and without hesitation.

He does not turn to look at her. "Think about it?"

She rolls her eyes. "Seriously, you know what I'm talking about. You, me…" _The woods, the sex_, she finishes the sentence without words.

"Yes."

"'Yes' you know what I'm talking about, or 'yes' you think about it?" She asks impatiently.

"Yes, I think about it," he answers simply.

She watches him from where she stands, only a few steps away from him. The fabric of his shirt wraps around his body, moving as he puts aside the bottle of red wine, and turns to face her. His lips are pressed together in a flirtatious smile, as though he knows that all she wants in that moment is to kiss him. Taking a step towards him, she takes the glasses of red wine out of his hands and places them both back on the table.

"What do you want, Caroline?" He asked softly, trying not to get lost in the blue of her eyes.

She looks down, her eyes traveling from the green in his eyes and coming to a slow stop at the pinkness of his lips. The memory is still fresh in her mind, the memory of kissing him. _It felt so good to kiss him_. Almost instinctively, the palms of her hands cup his face. It's familiar, the feeling of his stubble under her fingers. He doesn't move, just like last time, waiting for her, but as she leans forward, he moves away.

There is a silence then, which he ends a long moment later.

"I would just like to make something very clear," he says. "I will make you not a single promise. Not this time."

Her hands move from the sides of his face to his shoulders, resting for a moment before moving to the belt of his jeans. "No promises," she agrees. "And no confessions."

He smirks, placing a hand over hers at the belt. "This is your confession, love. _You_ came here. _You_ are choosing to stand here, pretending as thought this –" he squeezes the hand that remains over his belt "—is what you want, when the truth is that this is only a metaphor for what you really want."

She scoffs, a sudden feeling of hostility rising within her. "As if you know what I want!"

"Oh, but I do, love." With two hands firmly at her waist, he moves her across the room in a sudden flash. "The truth is that you have grown tired of Mystic Falls. The truth is that the life you were building for yourself, the life you thought you wanted – the one that didn't include me – isn't what you want now. The truth is… you are bored. And you are trapped in the life you thought you wanted."

In another flash, he lifts her onto a nearby table, not bothering to remove the decorative vase that rests on it. It falls to the ground, breaking in peaces, but neither one of them look at it.

"The truth is that you want adventure." He dips his head to the curve of her neck. "You want the rush. The truth is, as terrifying as it may be for you, is that you want the same thing I want. You want freedom."

She feels his hand on the back of her head, his fingers entwined in her hair, but she dares not move. The truth is, he is right, and it leaves her feeling frozen, trapped in a sort of mix between fear and excitement. He tugs at her hair, so that her head snaps back and her neck becomes exposed. His lips travel along a vein in her neck, and she wonders if he will bite through the skin and leave her bleeding. He doesn't_. Not yet_. He's still proving his point, she realizes. He knows, just as well as she does, that what he's doing comes with the excitement of uncertainty. She closes her eyes and lets her imagination run wild, imagining her blood running through his veins. She remembers the taste of his, in that moment, the warmth of it, the euphoric feeling it elicits.

"Do it," she whispers, but he does not. He runs his tongue down her neck, teasingly, and lightly presses his fangs to the skin of her neck, having no intention of piercing the skin.

"Admit it," he breathes into her skin. "You want the never-ending entertainment, you want the rush of being with me, and you want the darkness, too."

Her legs tighten around his waist, and her hand travels under his shirt. He does not stop her, he does not make a move, but she can feel his breathing change. He likes her touch along his bare skin, she knows it. She runs her nails along his skin, teasingly at first, and then she lets them break through his skin. And she can smell it, his blood, and she can almost taste it. She wants to taste it. She wants the excitement, the high that comes from having his blood travel through her veins. She wants the high that comes from having him inside her.

"Admit it," he says again, feeling his own blood running down his back, "And you can have all of it, everything you want. No guilt, no promises. Complete and utter freedom."

The air is laced with blood, his and hers. With one hand still on his back, the other she places firmly at his crotch, and she smiles feeling him harden under the fabric of his jeans. She knows that he would take her now, with or without her saying a word, but she speaks anyway. "I admit it," she breaths into his ear, feeling his fangs at her neck. "I want it all, everything you said."

It is then, in what seems to be less than a second, that everything becomes a blur. He bites into her neck, and she feels the blood run down her chest. He hardens at this, and she feels him moving his hand along her leg, moving the fabric of her dress. Tugging at the bottom of his shirt, she pulls it up and over his head. She misses him in that second, in the brief second that he's not pressed against her. It's strange, she knows, but the feeling of desire, the feeling of wanting him close to her, inside of her, is all-consuming. Everything happens in a rush, in a blur, and before she can think, she feels him move himself inside her.

An involuntary moan leaves her lips as he thrusts into her – once, and then again.

He can feel her hands on his back, holding on to him as he moves into her. He slows his movements as he becomes aware of everything she is doing; the way her legs wrap around him, the way her body moves to meet his, the way she moans into the crook of his neck, and the way her arms hold him in a tight embrace. He feels human now, for the first time in a long time.

He knows, in that moment, that he will never let her go. Never again will he allow them to part ways. Never again will he make foolish promises.

"Feed," he commands; he hears only a moan in response. "Do it."

And she does, slowly, softly, and then all at once, letting her hunger take over.

She feels the warmth of his blood travel down her throat, leaving behind only more hunger. She knows the reason behind his request, but she doesn't care. Her blood runs through his veins, and his runs through hers. They are connected now. They are connected, and she does not care. She should feel guilt, she thinks, but she does not. She feels freedom.

With his blood on her lips, she keeps her arms rightly around him, feeling his bare skin under her fingertips. He breaths her name as he begins to move inside her once more, and she feels as though her skin is on fire, as though she has never before felt such ecstasy.

"I missed you," she breathes into his skin, almost without thinking.

She knows this to be true, an undeniable fact, and she does not care who knows. For the first time, she does not care who knows. For the first time, she is free of guilt, free of obligations, free of everything.

He says nothing in reply; he does not need to.

She can feel him tighten his hold on her, reveling in her words. His hands move along her body, and she lets herself be touched. He is telling her in this way, she thinks, that he missed her, too. He understands, in this way, through touch, that she is giving herself to him, freely and without guilt. She is his, and he is hers.

Together, they are free.

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**Please leave reviews, if you have a moment :)**


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